


Live From New York

by heliocentrics



Category: Saturday Night Live, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actor Ben Solo, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Saturday Night Live - Freeform, Sketch comedian Rey, Somewhat established relationship, by somewhat i mean they fucked once and never spoke again, can ben solo nail a punchline? more at 11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentrics/pseuds/heliocentrics
Summary: SEPTEMBER 29th: BEN SOLOHer phone clattered to the table.“No. Fucking. Way.”**Rey, an SNL cast member, is forced to host with former fling and A-list actor Ben Solo. If they don't ruin the show, they'll certainly ruin each other.





	Live From New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this was completely sprung on by Adam Driver's upcoming SNL appearance. (Hopefully I'll have this three-shot finished by the time he hosts on Saturday!) If you're also reading Liaison, my other WIP, I needed to take a break from all the depressive canonverse writing I was doing and put together something a little lighter (and funnier? Hopefully?). Super big thanks to [Tamara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives) for beta'ing this chapter!! I love her and she's a genius; if you haven't read her Russian mafia AU please rectify that immediately thanks. REYLO REQUIRED READING.

“Who do you think it’ll be?” Rose asked.

Rey swirled a green plastic straw around her drink, mixing cubes of ice through her latte. “Is it bad that I hardly care? I’ve yet to meet an _extraordinary_ host; someone who will learn their lines and show up to rehearsal on time is just about as much as I can ask for. At this point, comedic timing is a bonus, not a requirement.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll never forget that famous twenty-something— singer, right?— that hosted my first time. Gorgeous as hell, but dumb as a brick.” She stifled a laugh behind a bite of almond croissant. “Still, I’m hoping for someone fun. Someone _funny_. I wonder when the announcement will drop.”

Rey frowned, fishing through her bag for her phone. “I haven’t checked my email since yesterday afternoon.”

“ _Are you insane?_ Holdo is gonna kill you.”

“It’s off-season! As soon as I’m sent a list of rehearsal times, I’ll turn my notifications back on. But for now, I’ll feel free to blissfully enjoy the last vestiges of summer.” _Even if summer was just an uncountable number of hours on the sofa, watching an uncountable number of_ The Office _episodes and eating an uncountable number of Ben & Jerry’s half-baked pints, divided up by coffee and lunch dates like this._ “Usually we work six days a week, sunup to sundown. We deserve a break.”

Rose just gave a quiet _hmph_ , forced to defer to a cast member with five seasons under her belt. Rey had been recruited for _Saturday Night Live_ ’s cast at the ripe old age of 21, after booking a series of high-profile stand-up shows in New York. The shows had mostly consisted of dry jokes based around her parentless past and questionable future as a single girl with no friends and no family in the Big Apple, all delivered with careless optimism and a cheeky grin even Gilda Radner would have been jealous of.

It was pure luck that she had happened to catch the attention of Poe Dameron, one of the regular cast members, during her retelling of her failure to get into drama school. He had been the one who encouraged her to audition after the routine. Barely a week later, she had stumbled through a short stand-up bit and a few impressions, but by the end of the day Amilyn Holdo was calling her with an offer to become a featured player on the show. Three years later, Rose was hired as a writer, then as a cast member just three short months later; from there, their friendship had blossomed.

As if on cue, both of the girls’ phones _ding_ ed— Rose’s on the table, Rey’s in her purse— and Rose began to squeal with excitement, grabbing hers instantly to unlock it. “That must be it!”

After a good minute of fishing through her bag, her fingers closed around her phone— at the _very_ bottom, of course— and pulled it out. She wasted no time pulling up her email and swiping through her messages— a brand deal she’d probably turn down, a few emails from her agent, and then, towards the top—

ATTN CAST: NEW HOSTS

She skimmed the email as quickly as she could, running through Holdo’s welcome-back message and reminders on writing schedules. There, at the bottom of the email, a list of the first few shows of the season, with their corresponding hosts— some potential, most already penned in— and then she saw it.

SEPTEMBER 29th: BEN SOLO

Her phone clattered to the table.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

Rose tilted back her head and began to laugh.

* * *

“I’m not asking you if he’s hot. I’m asking you if you’d fuck him.”

It’s a Sunday evening, waning winter sunshine leaking in through half-drawn blinds in Rose’s apartment. They’d just finished another show the night before, and were currently nursing after-party hangovers in the living room with a box of donuts and a gallon of cold brew, the ashes of a few joints gone cold sitting in a tray on Rose’s coffee table. In Rey’s blazed, hungover state, she was currently contemplating the fuckability of Ben Solo.

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

Rose sits up from her reclined position on the loveseat. “Absolutely not. ‘A painting may be beautiful, but I don't wanna fuck a painting.’ Kevin Malone.”

Rey shrugs. “Fair point.” She shifts her gaze back to the paused scene on Rose’s TV. The famed villain of _Galaxy Wars_ stands unmasked in front of the female protagonist of the series, Kira. _Sure, he has a bit of an emo thing going on, but…_

“Okay. Fine. I’d fuck him.” The more she thinks about it, even, the more conviction she finds in that answer; she can see the hard planes of his muscles beneath the dark wrappings of sleeves, the sharp cut of his jawline contrasting against the black of his outfit. _More of a dress, really_.

Rose squeals next to her, reaching forward to throw a half-eaten donut at her friend. “I knew it! He’s hot as _fuck_ , Rey.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I never said that!” Rey attempts to defend herself, lifting her hands up as a weak shield from the flying donut. “I just said that I’d fuck him. _Kevin Malone_ , remember?”

“But he’s _gorgeous_ , Rey. Sure, he’s not ‘conventionally attractive’,” Rose begins launching into a lengthy diatribe, using air quotes and rolling her eyes, “but come _on_. It honestly just makes him hotter. Look at the nose, the jaw, the freckles. Sure, they’d be considered unattractive, _separately_ , but it all works on him.”

“Whatever. At the end of the day, he’s tall and thick and the hair is long enough to pull on during sex. If he’s hot… sure,” Rey finally admits. “That’s a nice side effect.”

Rose, apparently satisfied, lays back against the sofa and resumes the movie. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Knew you’d like him. He’s totally your type.”

Rey scoffs. “I don’t have a type.”

“I’ve known you for over two years. You’ve never gone on a date with someone who wasn’t a dark-haired sasquatch.” To emphasize her point, Rose jabs the remote at the screen, where Ben Solo’s character, unmasked, is currently interrogating the girl, lip quivering as his gloved hand dives into her mind. “Who looks _just_ like that.”

Rey can only sink further into her seat on the sofa. “Not _every_ guy that I’ve—”

“Yes. Every guy.” Rose refuses to back down. “If you can name someone you’ve dated that wasn’t over six feet tall and had a hair routine longer than yours, I’ll buy your dinner tonight.”

The baritone investigation of Kira is the only background noise as Rey ponders Rose’s proposition. “Taslin Brance?” He’d been a writer on the show for a little less than three months, asked her out to dinner, and left the show before he could ask her on a second date. The last Rey had heard, Brance was writing for a sitcom on CBS— and mercifully out of her way. She had a _terrible_ fear of encountering exes in the workplace.

“You didn’t date him, you went on one date, and I distinctly remember the only complaint you had was that he was ‘too short’. The man was six-one.”

Rey lets the back of her head hit the pillow. “Okay, fine, you win. I believe you.” Her hands lift slightly in mock defense. “I’m still not sure how being attracted to a character is so important anyway—and one so morally reprehensible. Look at how he’s _torturing_ that her!”She gesures back at the TV.

“Oh, Rey,” Rose says, a chuckle on her breath as she reaches for the cold brew. “You spring chicken. Just wait ‘til we get to the sequel.”

* * *

Rey set down her coffee. “This is a practical joke.”

“Nope. Sure, Holdo has connections, but she also has amazing taste. And people _want_ to be on the show.”

 _Not people like this._ “I’m going down there right now to talk to her. If you don’t come with me, you’re a bad friend.”

“O-ho, _hell_ no. I’m perfectly content missing out on that discussion, seeing as I want to make it to my next birthday.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can take Holdo on my own.” Picking up her phone and closing out her email, Rey quickly swiped to the Lyft app, ordering herself a car. “I’ll be at the office in twenty. We’ll be in Manhattan.”

“ _You’ll_ be in Manhattan.”

“Wanna meet for dinner after?”

Rose opened her mouth as if to protest, then thought better of it. “I do think I wanna hear the play-by-play of your, ah, _meeting_.”

“Fig & Olive, two hours from now. Bring Kaydel— I’m sure she’ll want the scoop.” As her Lyft pulled up to the curb in record time, Rey trashed her empty coffee cup, tucked in her chair, and walked towards the car that would take her to Rockefeller Center. “Wish me luck.”

“No, thanks,” Rose called.

* * *

Beneath the navy Manhattan sky, with nothing but the stars and the moon to look down on her, Rey is alive.

Well, that’s a bit of an understatement. She’s _living_.

Scrounging and scavenging through multiple foster homes until she had enough saved for college meant that Rey had hardly had the cash to splurge on nights out at bars or clubs during her younger years. Because of that terrible fact, she tends to go harder than most during the show’s after-parties. _Making up for lost time,_ she always tells herself.

So after her third shot, when Finn begins tugging at her jacket sleeve, Rey can produce the typical excuse— “I was an _orphan_ , Finn, let me have some fun—” before high-fiving Poe in ceremony of their shared alcoholism.

“No, Rey, it’s not that—” Finn gives her a final tug and points across the rooftop. “Look who’s here.”

And there he is— black hair, set in perfect waves he _definitely_ didn’t pre-arrange around his face, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a hunter green bomber jacket that complements the warm brown of his eyes, nursing an IPA while one of the show’s producers yells in his ear.

And, of course, he’s tall. He’s _very_ tall.

“Who invited him?” Rey yells to Finn over the pulsing music. “Wait— how do you even know about—”

“Rose told me,” Finn explains a bit abashedly. Rey can only roll her eyes, then return a nervous glance to his silhouette, still lurking in the corner. She’s surprised Ben hasn’t garnered a crowed to surround him, considering his rising notoriety through _Galaxy Wars_ — then again, he’s missed her own attention for most of the night. “But you _have_ to go talk to him. He’s been making eyes at you, like, all night.”

Rey pulls back to give him a raised eyebrow. “Are you _sure_?”

Finn nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. It’s hard to miss.”

As if on cue, as she sneaks another glance across the rooftop, Ben raises his gaze from the ground, flicking his eyes up to meet with hers as the producer keeps talking. Despite a flush of embarrassment creeping up her cheeks, Rey can’t force herself to look away, instead keeping her gaze on his. Finally, the producer leans away, apparently asking a question, and Ben breaks eye contact to nod and smile absently at his conversation partner. The look that passed between them must have lasted mere seconds, but to Rey it seemed like an eternity. She releases a breath.

She isn’t sure if it was the copious amount of alcohol in her system, or the dismal luck she’s had in the dating game recently, but something inside Rey spurs to Finn’s dare. “Okay. Here I go.” She pauses a moment, swiping the pad of her thumb around her lips, tossing her brown hair over a shoulder. “How do I look? Not too drunk?”

Finn gives her a smile— and it’s hard for her not to miss the glint of bemusement in his eyes. “Perfect. Go get ‘em.”

With another deep breath, and a quick grin at her friend, Rey sets down her empty cup and parades across the party to sidle up next to Ben Solo.

The producer he was been speaking to just a moment before has drifted away, and Rey senses her opportunity, sneaking forward before he can strike up a conversation with someone else. “Hey,” she begins lamely, flashing a smile. “I didn’t know you’d—”

Before she can finish her sentence, Ben leans down and wraps an enormous arm around her to pull her in. Even through the thick material of her sweater, she can feel the corded muscle of his biceps, the smooth skin of his forearm, all pressing against her.

“Want a drink?” is all he murmurs into her hair.

That same flush creeps back into her cheeks, but this time, it’s not from embarrassment. “Sure.”

The next hour is a blur of faked conversation with whoever happens to drift by while Ben slowly explores every curve of Rey’s body with his hands— back, shoulders, ribs, he gets it all. Halfway through the night, she chokes on (one of) her vodka Sprites when she feels something resting comfortably on her ass— _his hand_ , she quickly surmises. _His giant fucking hand_. Each of them go through their fair share of alcohol, and just when she thinks she can’t wait any longer, he takes her around the waist again and leans down.

“Let’s go.”

Rey pulls back enough to meet his eyes, a sly smile infecting her expression unbidden. “Where?”

He scoffs against her. “Anywhere.”

 _Anywhere_ turns out to be the hallway between the service elevator and the roof door, where the reverberations of the party’s music still pulse through the fading brick walls that separate them from the rest of the rooftop.

And if Rey thought Ben was being aggressive out at the party, it’s nothing compared to when they’re alone. Before the door has even closed behind them, he presses her against the wall, keeping one hand firm on her shoulder while another cups her face, bringing her chin upward to meet her lips to his.

Rey may have been daydreaming about kissing him for the better part of an hour— with those lips, how couldn’t she?— but the daydream is _nothing_ compared to reality. Ben’s mouth is soft against her skin, planting hungry kisses down her chin and across her jaw. His other hand tangles in her hair, urgently forcing her head back. It takes her a dull moment to respond, but eventually her instincts kick in, grabbing and kissing right back.

Ben’s fingers splay out to cover the expanse of her neck, thumb just behind her ear while his pinky reaches all the way down to her collarbone. She’s overwhelmed by the sheer _size_ of him, but in the best way, and she doesn’t hesitate in diving in; brushing her palms against his pecs, his ribs, all of him she can. She tugs at his jacket and he quickly obeys, shrugging it off to reveal a plain black t-shirt underneath. Her hands snake around him, up his back and into his hair, always pulling him closer to her.

After an eternity of _that_ , he discards all pretense, and shoves his hand toward her crotch. Under any other circumstances, she probably would have been disgusted, offended, but with Ben, it seemingly doesn’t matter. In fact, he’d been so forward with her all night, it was starting to turn her on. _And fingers that big have no business being anywhere besides in my pants right now._

So Rey doesn’t stop Ben when he starts rubbing at her cunt through denim fabric, his lips still on her mouth. Greedily, like she can’t get it fast enough, she reaches down and undoes the button of her jeans, all but forces his hand past her panties and up against her clit, where she’s already wet for him. She can tell when he feels it, her slick on his fingers, because he smiles against her, bites her bottom lip until she’s practically _bleating_. Another hand snakes back, massaging her hip, then grabbing her ass, squeezing. His hair falls into his face, and her face too, tickling her nose while they keep kissing, rocking forward and back as he rubs arousal into her.

Down the hall, she hears a door slam open, and both Rey and Ben jump, though they don’t dare pull away. _Hardly practical, what with your hands in my jeans_ , she thinks. Mercifully, no noise follows it besides quiet footsteps, and then another door opening and closing. They both breathe, relieved chuckles ghosting on their lips.

“We should get out of here,” Ben admits, running a hand through his hair. _His_ dry _hand,_ Rey recognizes sheepishly.

“Yeah,” Rey replies, breathless.

He stands back with one hand on his hip, another on the wall she leans against. Their gazes hold for a moment, and then Ben laughs.

“Alright. My place. Come on.”

* * *

It had been years since she had first walked through the staff doors of NBC Studios, the bright neon sign casting a brilliant red glow on her skin, but Rey never got over the _magic_ of it. As an orphan, skipping from house to house, she knew she could make it to the big screen, scrabbling to a major studio by the skin of her teeth, but she never let herself dream so big as to think she would be working in the iconic 30 Rockefeller Plaza— as a repertory player on the most famous sketch comedy show on television.

Now, though, Rey wasn’t really dwelling on that, only kindling her quiet disdain, mixed with a twinge of embarrassment. She wasn’t embarrassed often—foster care will divorce any child from shame— but when she was, it pulsed in the forefront of her mind, setting up shop until she dealt with it. And this was the best way she could think of doing just that.

Swiping her clearance card and opening the door to the staff entrance, she was able to get past security in a matter of minutes; the staff building was practically empty on a Saturday afternoon, but Rey knew that Holdo would still be here. After a quick elevator ride up to the eighth floor, Rey made her way to the producer’s office, down the hallway just a few steps away from Studio 8H. Holdo’s door was unmarked— “The people that _need_ to talk to me know where my office is. Everyone else is unimportant”, she’d told Rey once. Now, she rapped on the door twice with one knuckle.

“Who is it?” came Holdo’s singsong voice, muffled through the wood. Rey could hear her chair squeak back from behind her desk, patent heels clicking against the hardwood floor indicating her getting up and crossing the room.

“Hey, uh… it’s Rey.”

The door swung open to reveal Amilyn Holdo, _Saturday Night Live_ ’s showrunner and executive producer, looking as prim as ever in a cream white fitted pantsuit and lavender heels to match her perfectly coiffed hair. “Rey! I wasn’t expecting you. Please, come in.”

Rey shuffled inside, intimidated as always by Holdo’s appearance and her spotless office, nary a paper out of place. _I’ve never seen her clean it. I think she’s just one of those rare people that don’t leave a mess. Like an elf from_ Lord of the Rings _or something,_ Poe had confided once.

“Have a seat.” Holdo gestured to one of the two armchairs opposite her desk, both made of a dark wood with cushions the color of a spring sky. Rey sat gingerly and set her bag by her feet. “I’m wondering why you’re visiting during offseason,” the older woman remarked, forgoing her white throne of an office chair to stand by the windows that looked out over the studio.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Holdo,” Rey began. “I just saw the email about the— _hosting choice_ for opening night, and, well…” she swallowed, unsure how to continue. “It’s a conflict of interest. For me, at least.” _There._ That was as delicately as she could put it.

Holdo turned around, brows furrowed. “Conflict of interest? We work in _comedy_ , Rey, not a law firm. There’s no such thing.”

“Well…” Rey squirmed, unsure of how to continue. “I just don’t know how easy it’ll be to work with the host given our, ah… personal history.”

“You’re talking about Ben?” Holdo smirked, _click_ ing her way to her chair in those _fucking_ heels.

“You know him?” Rey was shocked.

Holdo merely shrugged. “Tangentially. His mother Leia and I went to drama school at Yale together. Though that wasn’t why I picked him to host.”

Rey had to bite back a scoff. “Why _did_ you pick him?”

“He has talent— more talent than most actors his age— and more importantly, he has a film to promote. The schedules lined up.”

Rey shook her head, panic rising in her throat. “You’ve got to cancel his appearance. I don’t want to take the premiere episode off, but—” _To hell with being delicate._ “Holdo, you know I hate working with exes, which is kind of why I’m here now. I _slept_ with him. Ben Solo.” She swallowed, uneasy with her admission hanging in the air between them. “And things didn’t really end well, so I’d really like to avoid—”

“I’m sorry, Rey,” Holdo interrupted with a wave of her hand, reaching for the phone on her desk with the other. “The announcement’s already gone public.”

Rey was stunned into silence, if only for a moment. “...What?”

Holdo turned her phone around to reveal her screen— stark-white with a tweet from _Saturday Night Live_ ’s promotional account, accompanied with an image from the office’s corkboard. On a soft blue index card, in capital black letters, was the name _BEN SOLO_ , the date written above with the musical act, _Ghost_ , written below.

Rey pursed her lips _. So that embarrassing personal confession was for nothing? You didn’t stop me from telling you I fucked your best friend’s son?_

Holdo pulled back the phone. “There’s no conflict of interest, and you’ll still be on the show two Saturdays from now.” She kept her gaze on Rey’s, squashing even a hint of grief the girl might have given her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rey droned, standing and hoisting her bag on her shoulder.

“We’ll have pre-production meetings next week, and if you’ve stopped whining about your sex life, I’ll see if the writers might avoid putting you both in the same sketch.” From her tone, it didn’t seem likely Holdo would follow through on that.

Rey nodded sullenly, heading towards the door, pushing down every instinct to scream in protest. When the door slammed shut behind her, the sound of wood against wood screeched with finality, like a coffin shut tight, sealing her fate.

* * *

After a solid few minutes of attempting to ignore the mid-morning sunshine leaking in through shuttered windows, Rey decides she _has_ to get up. Nuzzling into the pillow one more time, she stretches out like a cat, toes curling and fingers cracking, before throwing off the covers.

And, for the first time, taking in her surroundings.

 _This is not my room_.

And then it comes back to her: last night. The after-party. With _Ben_. She can’t decide if she should bask in the memories or shove them away in drunken misery.

When she turns to the side, she finds the bed empty, and the mattress is cold enough on his side for her to deduce that Ben’s been gone a while. She huffs. _So much for tying him down._

The room is spotless—it’s hard for her to believe they had been _in here_ last night. She can’t remember the last guy she’d slept with who didn’t have dirty laundry strung across his bedroom floor. Here, even _her own_ clothes have been neatly tucked away, folded on the corner of his dresser. The only thing out of place she can see is a crisp twenty-dollar bill, lying on the nightstand closest to her. She frowns, leaning over to pick it up.

To her surprise, there’s something stuck on that back— a Post-it note, she realizes. She turns over the bill to read it. There are only two words, in fat block lettering.

 _Cab fare_.

She wants to scream.

Ben was probably already out working—unreachable, since she’d never managed to get his number the night before. _Yes, we’d skipped all the pleasantries and gone straight to blind groping and face sucking, didn’t we?_ She shucks off the rest of the covers and grabs her clothes to dress, forgoing the idea of a shower she’d initially dwelled on. _No. If that’s how he feels, then I’d just as soon be out of here before I can be any more of a bother to the presumptuous prick._

Her phone, keys, and wallet were carefully placed next to her clothing. She swipes all three, ignoring the slew of texts from both Rose and Finn, and shoves them into her pockets, tying her messy hair on top of her head before leaving the bedroom in search of a way out.

The apartment is massive— hallways and bathrooms and paintings seem to be waiting for her at every turn, a never-ending display of the actor’s wealth. It’s a far cry from her cozy one-bedroom nestled in the heart of Brooklyn, probably one of the nicest homes she’s ever been in, despite the man who occupies it. Eventually, though, she finds what looks like a kitchen, and—

Ben Solo, standing by the sink, pouring himself coffee with his back to her.

Unable to contain her temper, she stomps forward, twenty in hand, and slams the bill on the marble countertop. “Is this your opinion of me?”

Ben turns around slowly, sizing her up with a wary glance. He looks infinitely better than she feels right now—showered, shaved, hair blown dry, with a fresh suit and brilliant silver watch on. _Not a scrap of evidence from last night on him._ “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No. Instead you’d just send me home without so much as a ‘goodbye, that was fun, let’s do it again next weekend.’” Her British accent is sounding more pronounced than usual, the louder her voice gets, but she can’t seem to find the restraint to hold it back.

To his credit, he lets her finish before giving a curt response. “I was trying to keep _either of us_ from thinking this was anything more than it was. Easier for us both that way.”

And the truth of those words is hidden in what he doesn’t say: _One night stand. We’re done here._

Rey is angry, still, but all of her energy seems to go out of her in a single gust. She had watched this scene play out, in a thousand comedies, a thousand sitcoms, more than a handful of skits. The girl gets angry because she expects more from a relationship than the boy is willing to offer. She wasn’t about to force that stereotype now.

“Fine,” she sniffs, “but this is yours.” She pushes the bill across the table with one finger, her eyes trained on him.

Ben lets the silence hang between them for a moment too long. “So did you, ah, want coffee or something? I might have bagels—”

“Oh, no,” Rey laughs sarcastically, shaking her head as she heads for the main door. “I wouldn’t want to overstep my bounds here. I’ll get out of your hair.” _Thanks for nothing._

The front door shuts behind her with finality, a coffin sealing Ben Solo off from her, with any luck, for good.

* * *

“So in the end scene, it was really important for me to, ah, tie the whole thing together. The whole film together, I mean,” Ben spoke into the microphone, fingers kneading around the black plastic. “I really have to give kudos to the director for that one— that part with the breaking down and crying, that was all him. I hope that answers your question.” _And I hope we can wrap the fuck up already._

Ben knew that entertainment journalists were crucial to the promotion of a film, but there were so many— _too_ many. And that was hard to remember, especially at a press junket like this, where he had been asked about crying on cue no less than a dozen times.

Mercifully, the moderator was slowly ending the panel, and after a few more questions for the director and a closing statement, Ben could mercifully stand and exit stage left, where his agent, Armitage Hux, was waiting, glued to his phone.

“Could have gone better” was Hux’s only greeting, referring to the panel. He fell into stride with Ben as they walked toward the stage doors. “You’ve got a few more private interviews, and then we’ll fly back to New York.”

Ben could only stifle a groan, a hand scrubbing over his face. “Remind me again why I even agreed to show up at this festival.”

Hux killed the screen on his phone, shoving it into his pocket. “Money, notoriety, the film’s marketing reps made it mandatory…” He screwed up his face in mock recollection. “Did I miss any?”

Ben could hardly paint on a sarcastic smile.

“By the way, I’ve confirmed your appearances on the _Tonight Show_ a week from Saturday, and then _SNL_ a week after that—”

“ _SNL_?” Ben interrupted. “As in _Saturday Night Live_? Hosting _Saturday Night Live_?”

Hux paused, giving him a look. “Um. Yes?”

 _What?_ “I don’t remember you ever _confirming_ that with me.”

Hux frowned down at his phone. “Well, we can hardly do anything about it now.” He turned the display so Ben could see.

Sandwiched between a date and the word _Ghost_ was an index card with his name on it, pinned to a corkboard, with an attached tweet about the show returning for another season.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to upload Part Two in the next few days. Come say hi on Twitter (@ben69solo) if you liked this chapter!! uwu


End file.
